


Delightful

by Chocolatepot



Category: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (2008)
Genre: Courtship, F/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocolatepot/pseuds/Chocolatepot
Summary: An old-fashioned courtship can be a lovely thing.
Relationships: Joe Blomfield/Guinevere Pettigrew
Comments: 13
Kudos: 25
Collections: Just Married Exchange 2020





	Delightful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cricket_aria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cricket_aria/gifts).



> Technically, you could easily read Joe as having proposed marriage to Guinevere in the train station (“if you’ll have me”, “and I am at a stroke the happiest man in London”), but for the purposes of this fic, I’m interpreting that exchange as referring to Guinevere being asked for her consent to a romantic relationship.

Guinevere Pettigrew had expected that, as Mr. Blomfield had been nearly married once before and as she was only an old spinster, the two of them would casually slip into an understanding and then one day they might casually slip into a register office and have their relationship made official without any fuss. It was therefore something of a shock to her when he appeared at the door to her modest flat (which he had procured for her just the day before, and which he was paying the rent on “until you find another position”) with a bouquet of roses of a deep red hue.

“What’s all this, Joe?” she asked, thinking bizarrely that perhaps he was just stopping by to see her before paying a call on some more elegant and worthy woman. For a moment, he looked completely confused, but then it seemed to dawn on him.

“Flowers are the customary gift before one takes a lady out to dine, I think,” he said. “Perhaps we might find them a vase.”

“I’m not sure that I own one,” she said, drinking them in. No man had bought her flowers since 1916, and those had been a small posy of daisies at a summer fete. Retreating to the kitchen for a frantic search, she came across a jar of beans that was nearly empty and tipped them out into a small pile before hastily running the tap. “This will have to do,” she said as she brought it out and began arranging the roses in it, “although it doesn’t do them justice. You really shouldn’t have, you know.”

Joe hmm’d as she dropped them into the jar and made a haphazard attempt to arrange the thorny stems. “Next time, I’ll bring a vase as well.”

“I wasn’t hinting – ”

“Of course not.” Joe had the softest, tenderest smile, and Guinevere always felt a sweet warm feeling come over her when he regarded her with it on his face. “But you’ll need one, I should think. Now, are you ready for the Lipton? The reservation isn’t until eight, so we have time for a leisurely walk to get there.” And they strolled down the street, Guinevere’s hand tucked securely into the crook of his elbow. It had been marvelous to be by his side; to have someone who belonged to her, and to whom she could belong as well.

Three days later, when he arrived to take her to an even more magnificent supper at the Restaurant Boulestin, he bore a long, thin box with a florist’s name on it. She placed it down on the table in wonder, and opened the lid to reveal the most glorious, exotic purple and white orchids.

“Now this is really too much,” she protested. She was always keenly aware of the disparity between them, that he was wealthy and connected while she had nothing; she couldn’t help but feel like a dreadful sponge of a person when she accepted gift after gift, most of them not even presented as gifts. Joe had a way of simply _providing_ for her without even seeming to think about it …

“I know I’m pushing it this time,” he confessed, “but when I saw them, they reminded me of you.”

The compliment stunned her entirely. If there was anything in the entire world that she thought herself unlike, it would have to be such a flower – a pure white, shot through with a violet that had a slight reddish tinge to it. “I can’t imagine how!” she finally managed to say.

“They’re delicate, but strong – refined, but vibrant. And I do believe you’d look marvelous in that shade as well. Now, you’ll want your coat tonight, there’s a bit of a chill.”

Joe took her to cafés, to the theatre, to nightclubs, to parks and bookshops, and brought her flowers, chocolates, and trinkets. After a few weeks, Guinevere realized that these weren’t individual engagements between the two of them: this was a courtship proceeding along. She wasn’t sure whether it was old-fashioned or new-fangled – her own experience had been so long ago, and so quiet and moderate, that she had no way to judge – but once she became accustomed to it, she found it delightful.

One evening they strolled through the park after a lovely dinner, the light breeze playing with the ends of her seafoam green scarf, and she found herself sighing. How long could this go on, really? War was about to be declared, and every aspect of life would change. There wouldn’t be quiet walks, or leisurely dinners – there would be bandage-rolling and gas masks and she didn’t even know what, this time. Joe was too old to serve this time, unless the situation were to become very bad indeed, but then, what if there were another epidemic, or something else unpredictable, in the war’s wake? With thoughts like these, it was perhaps unavoidable that she wasn’t able to fully attend to the conversation.

“... So, as much as I’m enjoying this, I suppose we’d better move on, don’t you think?” Joe said as they came to stop at a fork in the path, and her stomach, already tight with anxiety, dropped like a stone.

“What?”

“Move on,” he repeated. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Why would he want to end everything when they were getting along so beautifully?

“No, I absolutely don’t!”

He peered over at her curiously. “You don’t?” He seemed dismayed, although not demonstratively so; it was usually his way to keep an impassive face no matter what occurred. “I was hoping … that is, it seemed as though we were on the same page. If I’ve been hasty or treated you unfairly, please say something.”

“Well, it – it is a little unfair to say that we ought to move on, I think! But I suppose that everything is changing, and perhaps what you said you wanted at Victoria Station is no longer what you want.” She tried to keep her composure, but it was rather difficult and she could hear herself beginning to stammer, while her eyes became slightly misty.

To her amazement, Joe began to laugh. She could only stare at him, appalled. “Guinevere, darling,” he finally said, when he had himself under control, “did you hear a word I said before I asked that question?”

“Well, I …” It felt so rude to confess that that was so, but it _was_ so, after all. “I’ve been a little distracted lately, and I was concentrating on serious matters of international – ”

Taking hold of both of her hands in his, he said, “I was asking you to marry me, dear.” The dismay was entirely gone from his face, replaced with barely contained mirth at her own expression.

“Oh. Oh!” How perfectly ridiculous – it was hard to believe that she’d made such a blunder. And how to respond? Of course, she _did_ want to marry him – she had from their second conversation – but now everything was so awkward and unromantic.

And then he slowly eased himself down onto one knee on the path in front of her. “Oh no, you mustn’t!” she cried in dismay as she realized what he was doing. “You’ll ruin those trousers! And you know your knees aren’t what they were.”

“I can afford to ruin a pair of trousers every once in a while, and I think I’m moving slowly enough not to ruin my knees as well,” Joe retorted. “Now.” He let go of her hands at that, and reached into the inner breast pocket of his coat, at which Guinevere’s heavy stomach suddenly seemed light, too light, and she looked wildly about, but there was nobody nearby to witness the event. “Guinevere Pettigrew, I would like to know if you would possibly consider marrying me. If this is at all confusing, I would beg you to ask a clarifying question or two before you answer.” Finally, he drew the ring that she knew would be coming out from his coat and held it up to her.

“Yes, of course, yes,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Oh, do get up – yes!” She had to help balance him as he pulled himself to his feet, but then he took her hand and delicately placed the ring on the proper finger, and she suddenly felt so giddy and in need of balancing herself.

“That was my mother’s ring, by the way,” he remarked, and she held it up to the moonlight to admire its fine detail; rather than a diamond, it had three sapphires, a large one flanked by two smaller stones. “It was too old-fashioned for Edythe, but I rather think it suits you perfectly.”

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “Oh, you dear, good man.” It was remarkable, she thought in a rush, that it would have been so easy for the two of them to have never met – that the train of events that brought them into each other’s orbit that one fateful day were so improbable. And then he bent down to kiss her under the stars, and she allowed herself to stop thinking for a little while.


End file.
